Fever Fears
by authoressnebula
Summary: Post 4x04: A fever leaves Sam caught in the fears after the events with the rugaru. And the fever leaves Dean frantic about his brother's health.
1. Chapter 1

He sat up with a gasp, staring at the room around him. His heart pounded in his chest, leaving him almost dizzy. The dream, nightmare, that had tormented him not all that long ago had faded, the memory blurry now. He didn't know what it was, what it had been, what had scared him so much. His pulse was still thundering, though. It wasn't good, whatever it was.

He shut his eyes tight and tried to breathe. Deep breaths, in and out. The darkness of the motel room was soothing, keeping him calm. Not completely calm, but calm enough. God, he hadn't been this panicked and scared since...

Well. He wasn't going to talk about the summer months. The less said about that time, the better.

Finally, his heart wasn't pounding away anymore. He glanced up, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He glanced out of habit to his left, where his brother was sleeping. Well, generally was sleeping, but now he wasn't. The bed was empty, rumpled. Confused, he turned to glance at the other side of the room.

His brother stood next to the bed on the right, tall and imposing. His eyes glared through the darkness, hatred etched on his face.

And even as Sam tried to cry out, even as his eyes widened in surprise, Dean raised his arms and swung a machete straight at Sam's throat.

Sam shot up straight in bed, gasping. His hands shook as he clutched the bedsheets, and the room felt cooler than before. The dream (nightmare, _nightmare_) was still flying through his mind. God, Dean...

Who wasn't in his bed. Sam froze, stomach dropping out, and slowly turned to the right.

Where Dean was waiting, standing next to the bed. The machete was now a sword, and he swung just as hard as before, right for Sam's neck.

* * *

Sam gasped and twisted away from Dean's reach, making Dean's task even harder. "Easy, Sammy," Dean said quietly. He finally got Sam leaning back towards him and took advantage, pressing the cool cloth to his brother's head. Thankfully, Sam didn't fight him this time, instead shivering and clutching the sheets.

Dean sat back in the chair and scrubbed his face with his hand. The clock blazed two forty-two in the morning, and idly he wondered why all things sick happened in the middle of the night. Dean could count on his hand the number of times he and Sam combined had ever been sick during the day. Flu, cold, fevers...always in the dark, cold hours of the morning.

It'd only been six hours since they'd been driving in the car, their first tension-free drive since the rugaru. Dean'd played his music at full blast, and he'd even caught Sam lip-syncing to some of Led Zeppelin.

Only four hours since they'd turned off the road and into a small town for a motel. Nothing out of the ordinary: they were between jobs. After the rugaru, neither of them was in any rush to find another hunt. They were content with driving, struggling enough to be brothers again, let alone be hunters. They'd just been tired when they'd checked in and had immediately crawled into bed. Hadn't even been time for Sam to have cut himself and give himself an infection. Or have someone sneeze in his face to give him anything. Or even _eat_ anything that was out of place and hazardous. Dean knew. He'd had enough time to sit and think it over.

Only an hour and a half since he'd been awakened by a small sound and rustling sheets. Waking up hadn't been easy, and Dean had tried hard to fight the urge to go back to sleep. It'd been a long day, and the beds and pillows were fresh and soft. He'd been sorely tempted to go back to bed.

Then Sam had twisted again, panting and sounding in pain, and Dean had pushed all thoughts of sleeping aside.

Even now, Dean desperately wanted to sleep, even doze in the miserable chair. Not with Sam and his fever as it was, though. Dean'd tried to wake him several times to take something, to drink something, but Sam hadn't woken up once. No bumps on his head: just the fever taking claim. Wasn't helping Dean any to see the kid twisting around, caught in delirium, but the only thing Dean could do to help was try and cool him down. So that's what Dean was doing.

Sam shifted again, dislodging the cool cloth from his head. Dean reached without hesitation and caught Sam's chin, gently, his eyes falling to the bruise. It was faint, barely there. Sam'd had worse. Just not from Dean. It was a mark made by anger fueled by fear, and Sam couldn't have seen it for what it really was. He'd only seen the anger.

It was all Dean could see, now.

Sam panted again, fingers shaking and shuddering, and Dean reached out to try and still Sam in his pain. His skin radiated heat, too much heat. Dean grabbed the thermometer from the bedside table and waited until it beeped. The number stared back at him, taunting him, and for a moment, he froze.

Then he was leaping out of the chair, all thoughts of sleep aside. As he cursed, he felt the first fringes of fear snaking in his belly. It was too high. Way too high.

* * *

Sam gasped and sat up, already hurrying out of the bed. Oh god, he had to get out. Dean was gonna kill him, gonna take him out, gonna-

The sound of a bullet from behind him only made him dash for the door even faster. He could hear someone talking, whispering and hissing, _Monster, freak, wrongwrongwrong_. Everything was wrong. The room was shifting, sliding, keeping him from reaching the door, causing him to fall back to where his brother-

_Big Brother Dean_

-was waiting. Sam caught a hold of the walls, the table, the curtains in an attempt to move as the room twisted each way around him. Everything was warped, everything was wrong. He finally shoved himself forward and grabbed the door handle in his trembling, sweating hands. He had to get away.

The door was flung open and Dean stood, narrowed gaze filled with loathing and rage. The voices rose to a shout, hurling _freakmonsterfreakmonster_ at him as Dean raised his hand, the glint of the gun shining in the twisted moonlight, and pulled the trigger.

Sam cried out and shot up straight from the pillow, then desperately tried to stumble out of bed. He had to get out. Oh god, he had to get _out-_

* * *

Dean had every wash cloth from the motel soaked in ice cold water and laid under Sam's neck and on his forehead. When he ran out of those, he'd grabbed one of his t-shirts and started ripping it into tinier strips. Those had gone around his ankles and wrists, cold enough that Dean was losing feeling in his own fingertips from dipping them in the ice water.

The fever kept raging, though. If he could just get the kid to wake up and take something...

Sam still wouldn't wake up. He jerked weakly on the bed again, almost hard enough to toss off the cloths, and Dean shushed even as he carefully replaced everything again. Going on past three, now, halfway to four, and Dean's body had well accepted that sleep wasn't happening tonight. Not until Sam's fever came down a good two degrees. Just two tiny degrees would make all the difference between Dean being able to sleep or Dean sitting up, trying to decide if a hospital run was in their future.

Sam whimpered, honest to god _whimpered_, and Dean's chest was tightening even as he sat forward. "Hey, hey, easy Sammy. M'here, I gotcha. Not going anywhere, okay?"

"Ple..."

It was soft, barely breathed, but it still had Dean sitting straight up. "Sam? Sam, wake up. You awake? C'mon, kiddo, wake up."

"Please..."

Please what? "Sam?" Dean asked, growing more confused by the second. "Sammy? Please what? Gotta speak up, bro. M'listening, I promise."

"No, don-"

Sam thrashed again suddenly, making Dean jerk away and back in surprise. He shivered and shook in earnest, heavy breaths trembling, pain etched into his face. Still locked in whatever nightmare he'd been in before. "God, Sam," Dean murmured, biting his lip. He felt helpless, lost. More than he had since he'd gotten back from his four month trip to down under.

He grabbed the forehead cloth as Sam continued to tremble and shake, then frowned at how warm it was already. He dropped the cloth in the coffee pot beside him, their makeshift bowl for cold water, and reached for the thermometer again. A few moments later the number came back, leaving Dean staring in growing alarm. It hadn't come down: it had gone up. Probably taken longer to do so, with all the cold cloths.

The thermometer was dropped and Dean was shooting out of the chair, grabbing the ice bucket as he ran out the door for the ice machine.


	2. Chapter 2 End

_A/N: Thank you everyone for the reviews! I'm glad everyone enjoyed the first part so much (and that many were left on the edge of their seat). Both make me the bouncy type of happy. ^_^ Here's the conclusion!_

* * *

Sam flung himself out of bed, flew over Dean's, and pulled the door open. Then he was off like a shot into the boiling air, the night not cool as it should've been. The light posts along the highway were melting, twisting, changing colors, and the road was warped. _Dangerous road, brother_.

Then one by one behind him the lights cut out. One, by one, by one. Sam tried to run faster, pleas falling from his lips to anyone who would listen. The blinking lights would catch up with Sam, and he'd be left with the person running, chasing, behind him.

As the lights blinked out faster, though, he could hear the light and fast _thump-thump_ behind him. Boots hitting the pavement. There were no cars coming to save Sam, no buildings open to duck into. It was just him alone, so alone, on the empty highway, the lights blinking out one by one by one, his brother running behind him.

A bullet flew by his head and caused Sam to stumble on the pavement. His hands and knees hit, burning instantly from the pain, and he gasped and tried to dig up the energy to get up and run again. To roll away, to shield himself, to _move_.

It didn't work. The click of the gun behind him made his heart pound even faster, and in the melting road, he could see Dean's reflection as his brother stood behind him, gun aimed with a sneer. Sam pleaded again, out loud, begging Dean not to do it, please god _don't_-

The bullet flew out and Sam flew out of bed, over Dean's, and burst through door, racing for the car. He had to get away, _had_ to run-

* * *

"C'mon, Sam," Dean murmured helplessly. Sam shivered and shook and fought as Dean tried to place the last homemade ice pack around Sam's wrist. He was packed in now, surrounded with ice, and Dean still didn't think it was enough. Finally Sam's head wrenched to the side, and Dean quickly secured the ice pack. Not that he thought it would do any good, but...

His gaze slid to the bathroom door uneasily. The ice bucket was full of ice again, ready to be dropped into cold water. Honestly, it wasn't Dean's first choice. Getting Sam into an ice bath would be difficult.

Keeping him in the ice bath would make Dean the one having nightmares for nights to come.

Whatever was in Sam's own nightmare was still keeping him locked in tight. A little past four thirty now, nearly fifteen minutes with the ice packed around him, and his dreams still wouldn't release him. The shivering increased and Sam's brow tightened impossibly further. Dean lifted the small cloth filled with ice from Sam's forehead, felt for the warmth that was always there, then set the ice back on his brother's head. "C'mon, Sammy," he pleaded softly. "Just wake up, dude."

Then, a whispered breath. "De-?"

Dean found himself sitting upright in anxiousness for the umpteenth time that night. "Sam? Wake up for me, c'mon, you can do it."

"De-"

"That's right, I got you," Dean coaxed, allowing a small smile on his face. If Sam woke up, Dean had aspirin and water waiting for him, and then they'd be able to handle the fever. And Dean would possibly get a few hours of sleep before they had to check out, Sam could get some restful sleep, and they'd be on the road again-

"De-, n'-"

Dean frowned, hope beginning to die away, and he gently shook Sam's shoulder. Sam's face twisted even more in a grimace of...pain? Sorrow? Fear? "Sammy?" he asked anyways.

"No, pleas-"

The pleading again. And Dean was wrapped up in it. His stomach twisted even more, his hand hovering over the thermometer. It was bad luck, going higher each time it was applied, and even the thought made Dean's pulse pound a little harder. God but tonight couldn't end fast enough. It really couldn't.

Sam's head twisted and turned again. His hair was damp and stuck to his forehead, though not from the sweat Dean wanted, _needed _to see. He whimpered and then gasped for breath, whispered under his breath and pleaded, begged for nothing that Dean could figure out. Whatever it was, Dean didn't think it was good.

And from what he'd gleaned from the nightmare, he had a sinking suspicion that he was one of the stars in the horror show.

A moan had Dean grasping the thermometer, reluctantly. The number it yielded was a few tenths of a degree higher, but still higher. At the range it was now, every tiny bit was bad and dangerous. As much as Sam's brain hadn't been making stellar choices lately, Dean sure as hell didn't want it cooked.

"De-, pl'se, _don't_-"

And suddenly, Dean's sinking suspicion slid straight into a knot in his gut. The thermometer tumbled to the floor a second time that night from numb fingers, though Dean had to push himself out of the chair to get the ice.

* * *

Out of bed, the door, out to the car, down the road. The car stopped and he ran, out towards the ocean. The air around him was hot, stifling, he couldn't breathe, but the wind was cold and kept him shivering. The road had holes, big enough to swim in, no, _fall_, straight through into flames and ice shards.

Nothing made sense. Nothing was making any sense, and Dean wouldn't let up. Wherever Sam ran, Dean ran faster and beat him there.

Tonight couldn't, _wouldn't_, end. No matter what he did.

He twisted through the twirling docks of colored wood, wood that cracked and crumbled and flew up and sank down. The lights behind flickered and then went out. One. One. One. No fizzling, nothing. Just the One. One. One.

Sam could feel the sob inside of him, wanted to cry but couldn't. He was scared, lonely, terrified, alone. No one to save him, nothing left but condemnation. Why couldn't he get away?

_I got you, Sam_.

The docks beneath him began to give way, floating him up into the air for a long, horrifying moment. The sky above him wouldn't open, the clouds like daggers that would impale him if they dropped or he went that high. Finally he came down and he set off running again. His legs felt like rubber, his heart pounded like he'd run all night (did run all night, had been running night, never walking or jogging but _running_) and he couldn't catch his breath. No matter what he did, he could never catch his breath.

Dean would catch it. Catch it and choke it out of him forever. He had to get away, away from the only person he'd ever been able to trust, but that was over now-

_If I didn't know you I'd want to hunt you._

-over for good.

The dock ahead was no longer there, the end ragged and sawed off. Caused him to stop and search for another way out. The other paths were gone: only this one remained, with a plank he'd have to jump off of into the storm that waited for him out in the ocean. The depths swirled down and down and down, no colors or fire or ice. Just dark near black water swirling down forever, down down down.

A sharp hit to his head spun him around and sent him flying to the last vestiges of the dock that remained, the jagged edge that would send him tumbling into the dark abyss below. Dean stood above him, solemn and blocked off. No sympathy, no tenderness, no brother. No love. Sam swallowed back his useless tears and cries and tried to beg one last time. There was nowhere else to run to, and somewhere deep inside, he knew this was it. This was the end of the road, hello and goodbye.

Dean flicked on a lighter and it illuminated his face. His face was dark but his green eyes were clear, sanity where Sam didn't have any, and yet his face still remained angry. Full of hate. He didn't sneer, just stared, his eyes piercing through Sam and into him, boiling him from the inside out. The air pushed Sam down and kept him down, the wind wouldn't let him breathe, and Dean-

Was tossing the lighter. And Sam couldn't move.

The lighter hit and caught his clothes, and in a second he was engulfed. He tried to scream and roll, tried to move, and he couldn't get up, couldn't move, and he was burning away, unable to see any path out. He could still see Dean, though. Clear as day. The hatred that remained, the small satisfaction as Sam burned.

The ocean. If he could get to the ocean, he wouldn't burn. He couldn't move, Dean's gaze pinning him to the remaining few boards that there were. His brother, condemning him, burning him, _killing_ him. The abyss seemed to roar below him, and the fire was going to swallow him whole.

Then the wood beneath him gave, and Sam tumbled into the water, Dean's hateful gaze following him down.

* * *

The ice wasn't doing anything, not a damn thing, and Dean was running out of options.

The thermometer wasn't saying anything different at least, a few tenth degrees down in fact, but it wasn't enough. He was still too high and he wasn't coming down and Dean was coming apart at the seams. The only thing he could do was an ice bath, and the idea appealed to him as much as buddying up with a demon-

A surge of guilt sprang up, and he tamped it down for the time being. It wasn't going to help Sam now for Dean to really truly apologize, not half-heartedly throw it out there as he'd done after the rugaru. Right now, Sam didn't need an apology. He needed the fever to break, and besides taking Sam to the hospital or giving him an ice bath, there wasn't much Dean could do.

Well, maybe. He rose from his seat and grabbed the once again refilled bucket, a rag, and brought it to the sink. He twisted the knob to cold and pulled it up all the way, letting the rushing water drown out his guilt laden thoughts. When it was as freezing cold as he dared, he tilted the bucket and tried to fill it with the water without losing the ice. The sink wasn't big, but Dean was determined, and it quickly filled.

Then it was back to Sam's side. Sam wasn't fighting him anymore, which was even worse. He wasn't tossing and turning anymore either. He was simply laying still, only a few shivers here and there. His brain was losing the fight, and the rest of his body was shutting down with it.

Not if Dean could help it. And by god, he wasn't about to sit here and let his brother slip away. He'd pushed too hard and lost this battle only a few days before on the emotional level. He wasn't losing the physical battle now.

Dean plunged his hand into the water and found the rag at the bottom. His hand was bright red when it emerged but he didn't notice nor care. The cup of water on the nightstand with the pills was dumped into the bucket, too warm now to do any good. New cold water was gathered in the cup before Dean began bathing his brother. It wasn't a full ice bath, but that he'd leave for the hospital, and 911 was already plugged into the phone, ready for a simple press of the dial button.

The ice cold rag didn't stir Sam, but the cup of water poured carefully over his head did. He twisted to get away, another whimper of pain leaving his lips. "Easy, Sammy," Dean said. Another cup full he poured around Sam's shoulders and neck, and this time he got a full body twitch. "Easy, easy. I gotcha," he added. Sam's face was tightening up again and tiny shivers were increasing into more visible ones. Not more warmth: they didn't need more warmth.

He dipped the rag again and began washing Sam's face. When he lifted the rag away, he didn't almost see the slitted eyes. "Sam?" he asked cautiously.

Sam blinked again, his eyes more closed than open, but they were open, he was awake, and when he shivered again and whispered, "D'n?" Dean could've cried. Instead he tipped the last of the cup's water over Sam's head, making Sam slowly flinch and twist away.

"Easy, you got a fever going on," Dean soothed. "Gotta get it down. I need you to swallow something for me, okay?"

Sam stared at him long enough that Dean thought he'd drifted back off to sleep. Then he nodded, a tiny nod, but Dean was taking what he could. He re-dipped the cup and brought it forward along with the pills. He propped Sam up and paused when Sam flinched again. After a moment he kept his arms against Sam while Sam took the pills and swallowed.

The cup, though light and plastic, looked like it was weighing Sam's hand down. Dean snagged it and the towel from behind him and began carefully drying Sam's face. The hair he left wet, and even as Sam shut his eyes tight, he spread another cupful over his head and neck. "You feel warm?"

Sam shivered but nodded. "Hot," he whispered. Then, in a voice that sounded small and even impossibly softer, "Burning."

Dean read the fear beneath it and paused again for only a small moment. Then he doused the rag again and squeezed it a little bit before he turned back to Sam. The rag went up and down the arm, around the wrist, and then back up the arm. "No fires here, promise," he said, choosing his words carefully. Nightmare, it had to be.

Sam slowly, slowly relaxed. Not all the way, but enough. "Yeah," he whispered.

The rag was plunged into the ice water again, then brought to Sam's other arm. Sam shivered at the cool touch as drops fell across his chest but said nothing. He did tense up a little as Dean leaned over him, and Dean's quick glance confirmed the tiny bit of fear in Sam's face. His little brother had been so strong and so sure lately, even after the rugaru.

Now the fever had stripped him of any defense. Now, Sam looked small and scared. And now Dean wished, ironically, for when Sam had been so strong and sure of himself, even if it meant using demonic powers.

Dean cleared his throat and sat back in the chair, taking his time dunking the rag before he said, "Been up for awhile, watching you. You still spring high fevers, kiddo. You always have, even when you were a baby."

Sam said nothing, but Dean knew he was tense and listening. He finally stopped playing with the rag and reached up to cool down Sam's neck and chest. Sam's eyes were watching him, face wary.

"Was worried about you," Dean admitted quietly. "Always am, you know. I just don't always show it the right way." Was a close as he could get to saying _I'm sorry for what I did what I said_ and he hoped that despite everything, Sam could still hear it.

Sam stayed silent, so Dean tossed the warm rag into the ice bucket and let out a sigh. Maybe a little more wouldn't hurt. "But your fever's been really high, hasn't come down. Thought I was gonna have to call for help but...but I needed to keep you safe myself," and if that wasn't an admittance of all Dean was feeling, he didn't know what was. "Still would've called if you hadn't gotten up, because I might be a big brother but I'm not _stupid_. Well, not where your health's concerned. Other places, yeah, and uh..." God he couldn't finish.

A glance up showed Sam gazing at him, his expression unreadable. Dean bit his lip and reached out, carefully touching the bruise. "Does it still hurt?" he asked quietly, almost unable to meet Sam's gaze.

There was a moment's silence before Sam shook his head. "Not now," he whispered. His lips twitched into a small, brief smile. "Not anymore."

Guess Sam had heard him anyways. Dean managed a smile of his own and slid his hand up to brush Sam's hair out of the way. His hand encountered dampness before he reached the hair, though, and when he pulled his hand away, he realized it was sweat. The fever had finally broken.

The clock read six in the morning, the sun outside agreed as it filtered through the curtains, and Dean closed his eyes and tried not to cry.

The night was over. And Sammy was okay.

* * *

He blinked away the last traces of sleepiness and gazed around the room. The closed drapes couldn't hide the sunlight, and the room was lit, easy to see. His heart beat steady and slow in his chest. His hair felt damp, and the cool air from the a/c left him with goosebumps on his arms. Still, he wasn't frozen. It felt good, compared to the heat from earlier.

His eyes drifted out of habit to the left, where his brother slept. Well, where his brother generally slept. The bed was rumpled and empty, and he froze, his heart speeding up. He felt weak, too tired to move, but something small inside said he had to run. He glanced cautiously to his right, waiting for the blow.

Except his brother wasn't there, either. His brother didn't appear to be anywhere.

The hotel door opened and caught his attention, and Dean came in, a smile on his face. Didn't look like he'd slept very long, and he needed to shave, but his eyes were still bright and his smile didn't fall. Carefully he helped with the rise out of the bed, promising more sleep in the car on the way. The tuck into the passenger seat was just as gentle, and the pillow placed between him and the door was a welcome gesture.

The car started up, and Sam fell back to sleep, safe.

END


End file.
